Duchess of Sin (23 page)

I
f there is any house that requires a tiara, it is surely this one,
Anna thought as she examined Grant Dunmore’s dining room. Whatever had driven him to seek the Adair estate, it was not need
of money.

The dining room, and its adjacent drawing room, were vast, pale spaces filled with ornate plasterwork that scrolled around
valuable paintings and surrounded ceiling frescoes of classical scenes. Grecian statues reposed in specially fitted niches,
and yellow brocade draped the windows in lavish poofs and swirls. The furniture was all matching yellow and white satin, French
gilt, and Venetian glasswork. Lush carpets lay thickly over the flagstone and parquet floors.

Anna stared down the length of the polished mahogany table where the lavishness of the cuisine, laid out on silver and porcelain
platters, matched the beauty of the furnishings. Candlelight gleamed on the heavy silverware and the vases full of hothouse
roses. A sparkling Waterford chandelier swayed overhead, presiding over the loud laughter of the company, laughter surely
fueled by the free-flowing
fine wines. The distinguished guests, the highest nobility, politicians, churchmen, and famous beauties, partook of all that
was offered so generously by their host.

Grant Dunmore himself sat at the head of the table, impossibly handsome in that sparkling light. He belonged in that elegant
setting. It was his perfect domain, one he ran so smoothly with a mere nod of his head or a gesture of his hand. Even though
his aunt, Lady Thornton, sitting at the foot of the table with her ear trumpet, was nominally the hostess, she did nothing
to aid the gaiety and perfection of the night. It was all Grant.

What she could do with such a place, Anna thought, if it was hers. She had been trained all her life to be a fine hostess,
to plan soirees and run a household just like this. With a man such as Grant Dunmore, she could lead Society and make an invitation
to this house the most sought-after in Ireland.

That seemed to be what her mother wanted for her, what she ought to want for herself. But was it really?

She prodded at her food with her heavy silver fork, noting how carefully its etched pattern matched the hand-painted china.
It was all so painstakingly planned, so false—so useless.

Suddenly, she saw Conlan’s dark face in her mind, heard his laughter as they sat together in that rough tavern. She longed
to be
there,
with him! Even when they were in danger together, when she didn’t understand him at all, she felt ten times more alive, more
vital, more needed, than she did here.

Where are you, Conlan?
she thought.
What are you doing?

She prayed that wherever he was, he was safe and
taking care of himself. Or maybe the pretty faro dealer at the Olympian Club did that for him?

“My heavens, Anna,” she heard Jane say from across the table. “I do hope that chicken fricassee has not mortally offended
you.”

Anna glanced up at her friend. The candlelight, so soft and mellow-gold on everyone else, seemed to turn Jane to pure fire.
Her green satin gown, along with the emerald combs in her red hair and the diamonds dangling from her ears, sparkled blindingly.

Anna wondered idly if she could borrow that beautiful dress. After the mess she made of the red gown, she doubted it. But
it was so much finer than boring white.

“It is quite delicious,” she said. “I just seem to have no appetite tonight.”

“You need more wine then.” Jane nodded to one of the footmen who immediately stepped forward to refill Anna’s glass. The man’s
yellow satin livery and powdered wig gleamed, another touch of perfection in Grant’s house.

“It
is
very fine,” Anna said. She sipped at the dry, golden- white liquid, hoping it would drown her melancholy.

“Only the best for Sir Grant’s house,” Jane said. “It is beautifully arranged, don’t you think? So very fashionable.”

“It needs a mistress,” Lady Thornton suddenly cried. Her ear trumpet trembled in her hand. “Someone to look after it all.”

“Someone to pay the bills?” the man to Anna’s left, Lord Melton, whispered.

Anna glanced down the table to Sir Grant, to see if he heard them. He gave her a smile and raised his glass to her in a little
toast.

“Is he in some sort of trouble?” Anna whispered back. “He seems quite comfortable.”

Lord Melton, who had consumed a great deal of that fine wine, took another deep drink. “Appearances are worth all in our fair
city, don’t you agree, Lady Anna? And Sir Grant is better than most at upholding them. He has political ambitions, you know,
and those do not come cheap.”

“Surely he has chosen an auspicious moment for such ambitions,” Anna said, thinking of rumors of the immense bribes the British
government handed out in exchange for support of the Union.

“If one chooses the correct side,” Lord Melton said, taking another drink. “These are uncertain days, Lady Anna. Matters could
go either way.”

Uncertain days—to say the least. Anna sipped at her own wine, unsure what to say.

“A wife,” Lady Thornton announced. “That is exactly what my nephew needs. A rich wife.”

Caroline slipped into Grant Dunmore’s library, away from the false laughter and brightness of the party and into a silent
realm of books and solitude. Only when she inhaled the wondrously familiar scents of paper and leather could she relax again.
Anna and their mother were always so good at parties, at being gracious and sociable and charming. To Caroline, soirees were
a miserable business.

She straightened her spectacles and examined the room. It was not as large as the library at the Henrietta Street house, but
the walls were completely lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with rows and rows of enticing books. Beneath
the tall, narrow windows were flat glass cases filled with an array of objects. There was not much furniture, but what there
was looked comfortable and inviting, chairs and cassocks upholstered in worn green velvet. Everything was lit by a crackling
fire in the grate.

Caroline loved it. It was the perfect refuge from the gossip and card playing. She drifted over to the largest shelf and examined
the leather-bound volumes. Plato, Petrarch, Shakespeare.

“Perhaps Sir Grant is not merely a sporting man after all,” she murmured as she spotted a thick volume of Herodotus in the
original Greek. There were also the works of French
philosophes
and English scientists, treatises on agricultural methods and animal husbandry.

Most intriguingly, there was a row of books on Irish mythology. Caroline slid one from its place and thumbed through it, all
those beloved stories of Cuchulain and Maeve and dark gods and goddesses and fairies. The pages were all cut, and it seemed
well-read.

Sir Grant pretended to be not at all interested in Ireland, like all his crass Ascendancy cohorts. He seemed to seek only
land and rent rolls, and the power they brought. Was it all some kind of act? To what end?

Caroline put the book back in its place. She was better off studying history; it was much easier to understand than men. Especially
men like Grant Dunmore.

She went to examine the glass cases. There were bits of Greek and Roman antiquities, small alabaster statues, coins, and gold
and amber jewelry, as well as beautifully decorated medieval prayer books. A small antique cross gleamed with old rubies and
pearls.

But there were also Irish objects. A brooch in the shape
of a serpent with emerald eyes. A gold goblet etched with an intricate knotwork pattern. And a small book, open to one page.

Caroline leaned closer to make out the faded words scrolled across the vellum between a twisting blue-green dragon. It was
in Gaelic, and rather dim, but she made out “
Ne ceart go cur.…
” and the words “
Giniuint Mhuire gan Smal 923.
”

“Oh, blast,” she whispered, staring down at the book in stunned disbelief. “
The Chronicle of Kildare
. It can’t be.”

“So you found my treasure,” Grant Dunmore said from behind her.

Caroline had been so preoccupied with the book that she hadn’t even heard the door open. She spun around, her heart pounding
in surprise. He leaned in the doorway, all casual grace in his fashionable evening clothes, his arms loosely crossed over
his chest. But he watched her closely.

“I’m sorry if I’m not meant to be in here,” she said, her mouth suddenly dry. She usually had no trouble talking to men; most
of them cared only to natter on about hunting or cards and required only nods and smiles for their monologues. That was convenient,
for it gave her time for her own thoughts.

Grant pretended to be just like them, but she had the growing suspicion that he wasn’t at all. He was always watching when
he thought no one paid attention, always listening. This most erudite collection of books and artifacts confirmed it. There
had to be more to that old scandal of the Adair estate than met the eye.

More to
him
.

“I just needed a quiet moment away from the party,” she finished.

“I don’t blame you a bit, Lady Caroline,” he said amiably. “These gatherings can be quite tedious. Always the same people,
saying the same things.”

“But this is your own party!”

“Even worse. I am aiding and abetting dullness.”

Caroline turned back to the glass case, staring down at the beautiful, priceless little book. It was less disturbing than
his strange, golden-brown eyes. “You are the host. Surely you could turn them in a more amusing direction?”

She heard him push away from the door, the soft slide of his shoes on the thick carpet. He reminded her of the tiger that
she once saw in a menagerie, beautiful, elegant, seemingly lazy, but able to turn deadly in the blink of an eye.

Anna was surely in trouble if she did marry him.

“Have
you
tried to turn Lady Thornton from talking about the fashion in turbans?” he said. He leaned his palms on the edge of the case,
right beside her. He gave her an amused little half-smile.

She could see all too well why half the ladies in Dublin were in love with him. That smile did the strangest things to her
own thoughts, making them feel all twisted and turned in her mind. Yet she could not shake away those suspicions that it was
all some kind of façade.

Dublin was a city of façades, of codes and false words and hidden alliances. Perhaps that was why she preferred the faraway
past, when Ireland was a land of clans and warlords, battles and doomed romances. Clear alliances.

“I see what you mean, Sir Grant,” she said. “Turning Lady Thornton from turbans would be beyond human
endeavor. Even Cuchulain would have been foiled by the perambulations of her conversation.”

“You were quite right to take refuge in here,” he answered. “I often feel the need to escape myself.”

“It is your fault I neglect my social duties now, you know.”

“Oh? How so?”

“By creating such a perfect sanctuary as this.” She waved her hand around the lovely library. “It’s such a wondrous room,
Sir Grant.”

“I am quite flattered, Lady Caroline, for you are said to be quite the expert on libraries.”

“I have found refuge in one or two in my time. You have a fascinating collection.” She looked back down at
The Chronicle of Kildare.
“Especially this.”

“It is my greatest treasure. You have a very discerning eye.”

“
The Chronicle of Kildare,
written by a monk named Brother Michael in the 900s and hidden away from the Vikings with the other treasures of his monastery.
I thought there was only one in existence, the copy at Trinity College. And they would never let a mere woman see it. I have
had to make do with old translations, and they are so unreliable.”

“There are actually three originals that I know of,” Grant said. There was none of the usual fashionable ennui in his voice,
only a shy sort of pride. Caroline found it dangerously appealing. “The one at Trinity, which is where I first heard of it
when I was at school there, and one owned by a French marquis, which vanished in the Revolution. And this one.”

“Wherever did you get it?”

“I fear that must remain my secret, Lady Caroline.” He took a small silver key from a box on the mantel and unlocked the case.
Caroline watched, wonder-struck, as he carefully removed the book and held it out to her. “Would you care to look at it more
closely?”

She had never wanted anything more in her life. Her hands trembled with the force of her desire to touch it. “May I really?”

“Of course.” He gently took her hand and laid the volume on her palm.

The calfskin cover, dyed green and lettered in gold, was soft and cool on her skin. She drew it toward her, carefully turning
over the vellum page. It told the tale of an ancient battle in Kildare, one where the beleaguered forces of the heroic King
Connor were saved by the timely intervention of a dragon. Among the fanciful mythology was much real history, long thought
lost in the mists of time.